carrier, but he guessed it was more likely a Type 55 Chinese knockoff.
He went down the stairs, following the dozen or so other passengers on the flight from Bamako as they headed for the terminal. Lanz had been in dozens of airports like this and he knew their strengths and weaknesses. As he passed the armored car he saw that it was, as suspected, the Chinese version of a BTR-40. Two men lounged in front of the machine, both in jungle fatigues, paratrooper boots and aviator-style mirrored sunglasses. Both carried Tokarev submachine guns that dated back to World War Two.
Like the weapons, the armored car was older than both the men leaning on it. Rust stained the front end, a headlight was missing and the windshield was so filthy it was opaque. The vehicle also had a decided list to the right, indicating to Lanz that either the tires were soft or the suspension was blown. The Chinese vehicle might as well have been on a stand with a brass plaque, because it obviously hadn’t moved in a very long time. It stood to reason; the Chinese were free enough with their ordnance and their vehicles, but maintaining them was a different story. Running vehicles like the Type 55 required a parts depot, mechanics and a motor pool, the dull everyday workings of a real army, something that dictators like Kolingba had very little interest in. On the other hand a pair of Kamov Ka-52 “Alligator” attack helicopters on a hardstand next to the main terminal looked extremely well maintained.
Lanz stepped into the terminal. There was no doubt about immigration and customs protocol. An open area under two slowly spinning ceiling fans with two wooden desks and two wooden examination tables was obviously for locals returning home, while a closed door had a sign over it that said, FOREIGN VISITORS ONLY. Lanz opened the door and stepped inside.
There were three uniformed men in a small, windowless room with a gray tiled floor. The uniform was the same as those of the men lounging around in front of the armored car outside. One of the men sat behind a scarred wooden office desk, while a second man stood beside him and the third man stood in front of the exit door leading out of the room. There was a wooden examination table to the right of the desk. The two standing men wore mirrored aviator sunglasses, while the man behind the desk did not. The two guards carried what looked like Tokarev TT-30 automatic pistols in cheap belt holsters. A framed photograph of Solomon Kolingba hung on the wall behind the man at the desk. There was a wooden bench running along the wall opposite the desk.
Lanz stepped up to the desk and waited silently. The man behind the desk stared up at him. He was in his forties, the first gray showing at his temples. He wore round, stainless-steel-framed glasses. The name strip on his fatigues read, SAINT-SYLVESTRE; not surprising, since the Central African Republic had once been part of French Equatorial Africa.
“Passport.”
Lanz reached into the inner pocket of his cream-colored linen jacket and took out a passport. It was dark blue with CANADA stamped in gold above the Canadian coat of arms. He handed it over.
Behind the desk Saint-Sylvestre leafed through the blank pages. “Canadian?”
“Yes.”
“Your name is Konrad Lanz?”
“Yes.”
“Not a Canadian name.”
“My parents were Austrian. I immigrated as a child.”
“You don’t travel a great deal, I see.”
“On the contrary,” said Lanz. “I travel a great deal. You will notice the day of issue was only two months ago.”
“A brand-new passport.”
“The previous one was full.” In fact, Lanz had a number of passports but Canadian ones were easiest to get and he preferred to use brand-new documents when traveling to a country he had never visited before. God only knew which countries a madman like Kolingba disliked or had been offended by in his addled psyche.
Lanz had spent a week researching Kukuanaland and its leader, and from what he had gathered there was no doubt that Freud would have had a field day deconstructing the self-made general’s life and lunacies. According to various reports, his mother had been a prostitute who may or may not have been functionally retarded. His father had apparently been one of her clients. Kolingba had two sisters and three brothers, all of whom died violently and under mysterious circumstances.
Kolingba’s moods and behavior were notoriously unpredictable and violent; the citizens of Kukuanaland lived in perpetual fear. On the other hand, the general’s second in command, Oliver Gash, was an enigma, appearing on the eve of the so-called “revolution” to offer his support. Lanz’s sources indicated that Gash had some sort of vague criminal past in the United States; Lanz wasn’t sure which of the two men was the more dangerous.
“Why have you come here?” Saint-Sylvestre asked.
“Business.”
“What kind of business?”
“None of yours,” answered Lanz, wondering how far the man behind the desk could be pushed.
“The Department of the Interior is concerned with everyone’s business, Mr. Lanz.” Saint-Sylvestre smiled.
“I thought you were immigration, not the secret police.”
“In Kukuanaland they are one and the same,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “And there is nothing at all secret about our police.” The man’s smile hardened into something else. “We are a very open country, you see.”
“Commendable,” said Lanz.
“So, I ask again, what is your business here?”
“Guns,” said Lanz.
Saint-Sylvestre blinked behind the steel-framed glasses. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m an arms dealer…. Mr. Saint-Sylvestre, I specialize in small arms of all types up to and including man- portable antitank systems like the American LAWs or the Russian RPG-7.”
“Actually, it’s Captain Saint-Sylvestre, Mr. Lanz.” He paused. “What makes you think your services would be of interest to us?”
“Because the pistols your two guards are wearing were designed in the nineteen thirties. So were those submachine guns the guards outside were carrying.”
Saint-Sylvestre glanced down at the passport in his hands and changed the subject. “You were in Mali.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you do any business there?”
“None to speak of. I made a few contacts.”
“And one of them suggested you visit us? Anyone in particular?”
“A man named Ives,” said Lanz, throwing his line into the water. “Archibald Ives.” There was no reaction from Saint-Sylvestre other than a brief note he jotted on a pad close to his right hand. The ballpoint he used was a Montblanc-his own, or booty from an unwary foreigner who’d passed through the bleak little room that was Saint- Sylvestre’s fiefdom?
“And are you bringing any of these weapons into the country?” Saint-Sylvestre asked, nodding toward the single suitcase Lanz carried.
“Just the catalogs,” Lanz answered.
“The suitcase,” said Saint-Sylvestre, indicating the examination table. Lanz lifted the case and spun it around. The guard standing beside Saint-Sylvestre ran the zipper around the edges of the case and threw back the top. Saint-Sylvestre glanced inside. Toiletries, neatly packed summer-weight clothing and a half dozen thick catalogs: Armament Technology Incorporated of Canada, Browning, Bushmaster, the Czech Republic’s eska Zbrojovka Uhersky Brod, China’s Norinco, Russia’s Rosvoorouzhenie.
Captain Saint-Sylvestre picked up a catalog at random and leafed through it, then dropped it onto the table. Using the Montblanc, he turned over the clothes in the suitcase. He found only a library-edition copy of Carl Hiaasen’s most recent novel. He picked it up. “What is this?”
“A very funny book about the cult of celebrity in the United States.”
“You don’t have this cult in Canada?”
“It’s hard to tell.” Lanz shrugged. “There are no celebrities in Canada. They all go to the U.S.”
“The book is funny?”
“Very.”
